


could i be your lover (or is this my undoing)?

by altissimozucca



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Affairs, Alternate Universe - Poets, Angst and Tragedy, Cheating, M/M, Set in the early 20th century, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-13
Updated: 2020-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 23:09:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23127610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/altissimozucca/pseuds/altissimozucca
Summary: Max stood at the cemetery, feeling heavy drops of rain tumble on the thick fabric of his woollen coat. They stuck to the surface, clinging to it like he clung to the memories of what was just months ago; with his hands tucked in the deep pockets, he let his head fall, strands of his unkempt, dampened hair sticking to his forehead.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, Dilara Sanlik/Max Verstappen
Comments: 2
Kudos: 28





	could i be your lover (or is this my undoing)?

**Author's Note:**

> this work was inspired by the story of paul verlaine and arthur rimbaud

**_ Max stood at_** _the cemetery, feeling heavy drops of rain tumble on the thick fabric of his woollen coat. They stuck to the surface, clinging to it like he clung to the memories of what was just months ago; with his hands tucked in the deep pockets, he let his head fall, strands of his unkempt, dampened hair sticking to his forehead._

_A heavy sigh escaped his lips, coming all the way down from the depth of his stomach and through his chest until it met its solemn fate. Gone as soon as it came, a wisp of white smoke from the chilly weather became the only evidence of it ever existing._

_He couldn’t help but wish to disappear like that, too._

_It was a harsh winter. A thick surface of snow covered the streets of Paris, its ethereal beauty ruined by the hoofmarks and mud from the carriages of aristocrats travelling through the city. Disgust churned in Max’s gut as he remembered he used to be one of them, too._

_Max kneeled in the snow, ignoring the wet patch forming on his trousers; with his shaky, scarily pale hands he touched the cold, hard surface of the tombstone, fingers playing over the name engraved in black letters. A tear formed in the corner of his eye, but never fell._

_It was his own fault, after all._

_He should’ve known Charles would be his undoing._

The soft glow of the wax candle sat upon his desk illuminated his face, sending warmth down his spine. His fingers clutched the quill tightly in his hand, the black inkwell open at its side; Max dipped his quill inside, writing replies to the senders of the letters he’d received. Words formed on the paper as he wrote, the silence of the night suffocating him at times.

Opening a new letter, he let his eyes skim over it as quickly as possible. It was sealed with wax that someone had put their finger through, leaving behind an imprint that had Max frowning in distaste. Deciding to ignore it, he began reading, swiftly at first but going back to the beginning after seeing potential in the sender.

_“Dear Sir,”_ it started, two words written in a neat handwriting next to something he’d scribbled out, _“There is no denying You’re the best at what You do. For years I’ve been admiring Your works, reading the poetry You’ve so carefully crafted into pieces the most beautiful.”_ From then on, it was just the description of his poetry.

What caught his eyes skimming over it the first time was the part following, _“If I could be so humble to ask You for Your guidance. Some words I’d written, I’ve copied at the end of this letter and I plead that You read them. There is nothing in life I love more than poetry, and Your help would be utmost appreciated.”_

It was signed by _Charles Leclerc,_ and of course, Max had heard of him. A young poet from the Principality, said to be the next big thing; Max was intrigued. Reading his works, Max couldn’t deny that he had talent and so, in the middle of the night, he decided to invite Charles to his home in Paris.

Perhaps he should’ve gone over it with his wife. Perhaps he should’ve listened to others when they’d told him the Monègasque wonder was nothing but trouble. But Max listened to no one, and maybe that’s what brought him to his fate.

When Charles came to his house about a month after, Max was sitting in his study and reading _Les fleurs du mal._ Dilara knocked on the heavy, oaken door and softly said, “Our guest is here.” If he’d been doing anything else but reading, he most likely wouldn’t have even heard her.

Charles was already sitting in the living area of their house by the time Max exited his study, hands on his lap and a nervous look on his face; leaning in the doorway, Max observed him for a minute before finally speaking, “It’s good to finally meet you, _Monsieur.”_

The Monègasque jumped in his seat at the sound of Max’s voice, before smiling sheepishly (Max couldn’t help but notice he looked like a sweet kid) and greeting his host back. Max sat on the armchair, delving into a conversation about politics. Charles didn’t seem too interested in that, so Max changed the subject fairly quickly.

There might’ve only been few weeks of age between them, but Max felt like he was ten years older with the way Charles positioned himself.

Charles was intriguing; that’s what Max gathered in the next hours talking to the young poet. His views on the world were vastly different to those of people Max would usually be found with, he talked like he wrote – with emotion and passion, and Max found himself enjoying Charles’ company more than he anticipated.

Charles seemed to fit in Max’s Parisian social circles like a tailor-made coat. The _Monsieurs_ of Paris became enamoured with him, listening to his every word as if he was a priest on a Sunday mass. He found himself attending various events, talking and smiling, and he seemed to get along with everybody he met.

His decision to invite Charles to Paris seemed to have paid off, because Max appeared like a genius when it comes to taking credit. Charles’ talent skyrocketed, and he wrote more than he ever had before, publishing his works and becoming one of the few who achieved contemporary fame; Max happily spoke about Charles, saying, “He wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

From attending parties, they’d always get home tipsy and giggly, and Max would kiss Charles with such ferocity that the other man would be left with bruises lining his lips. It should’ve left them feeling wrong and sinful, but Max was a hedonist and Charles didn’t seem to care.

Max should’ve known it would backfire horribly. In the pits of his stomach, he knew it would; that didn’t stop him from taking Charles whenever he pleased, and Charles didn’t seem to mind it at all.

Dilara left him after a month of this endeavour. Born in a wealthy and well-known family, she didn’t have to suffer the affair her husband was having, and one with a man; she’d screamed at him, he slapped her cheek and she copied the action. Few hours later, she was gone back to her parents’ house, and Max was left with the feeling of guilt.

Charles heard everything, of course. Max blamed him, outwardly told him so and kicked him out of the house. The young Monègasque left scowling, but not before he said, “You’re a coward, Verstappen. A coward.” With that, he slammed the front door so hard a mirror shattered from its hinges, and he didn’t look back.

In his heart, Max knew it wasn’t Charles’ fault, but he was too proud to admit it. Instead, he turned his life to alcohol and sleeping on park benches; instead of the looks of admiration, he only received looks of disgust.

He didn’t cry when news of Charles’ death reached him. The bottles of whiskey became his best friends, and he drowned his sorrows and guilt until he could barely see in front of himself. The park bench he was sleeping on was wet from the falling rain, but he didn’t seem to care.

First flakes of snow began falling later that night. Max didn’t move from his spot, eventually getting covered in a layer of snow until a police officer made him go back home. He didn’t come to Charles’ funeral, but he watched as they lowered the casket six feet under from afar, before turning around and going to the nearest inn, where he spent the rest of the night.

_ Max stood at the cemetery, feeling heavy drops of rain tumble on the thick fabric of his woollen coat. With his head hung low, he whispered, “I’m sorry for everything, my dear. I wish time was reversible,” but the words were nothing but a whisper in the wind. There was no one around to hear them, other than the tombstone of the man he’d ruined._

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr at altisssimozucca](https://altisssimozucca.tumblr.com/)


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